


Brother

by IwillbeReichenbach



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Love, Drug Withdrawal, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Gen, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Missing Scene, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Wump, Sickfic, The lying detective, brotherly conflict, tld
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 01:07:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15570384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IwillbeReichenbach/pseuds/IwillbeReichenbach
Summary: Mycroft visits Sherlock in hospital the morning after the Culverton Smith affair.  As is usual with these two, conversation is a battle of wills and Sherlock is not at his best now that withdrawals have really set in.





	Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Brother - Street name for Heroin

The morning after Culverton Smith’s arrest Sherlock awoke to the symptoms of withdrawals. His hands shaking uncontrollably, his stomach churning violently, chills and fever, aching all over, his bones felt like they were made of barbed wire. He had been through it before, he knew it would pass but he riled at not being in control. He felt agitated, unable to get comfortable, unable to settle in one position for more than a moment at a time. Sun streamed into the room making it far too bright. It hurt his eyes. Mycroft arrived unannounced, letting himself in without knocking. Sherlock rolled his eyes in an almost pantomime level of ridiculousness. Couldn’t he just be left alone to ride out the storm? Hardly a moments peace since they had dragged Culverton out late last night. A revolving door of police officers and nurses with endless questions and now bloody Mycroft like the pompous cherry on the top of the proverbial cake. 

Mycroft eyed his brother with scrutiny. Opting not to take up the chair, that would have been too familiar, too comfortable, instead Mycroft stood posed at the foot of the bed. He looked judgingly down on Sherlock, shook his head minutely. Despite his current condition, Sherlock caught the tiny action and registered his brother’s disapproval. It didn't surprise him; brotherly disapproval was common and given the circumstances not altogether unreasonable.

"Who did this to you?" Mycroft asked.

"I did, I hardly thought you'd have to ask. Self-destruction is practically my speciality."

"You punched yourself in the face?" Mycroft asked mockingly. "I very much doubt that. Who did this?"

The bruising on Sherlock's left eye had become more pronounced overnight and the swelling prevented his eye from opening fully. Mycroft could however, still make out the subconjunctival haemorrhage that was evidence of the trauma. Sherlock was glad that Mycroft could not see the bruising that fanned across his chest. 

"John." Sherlock replied plainly, looking his brother dead in the eye. Daring him to ask more, to ask why.

"Arrh, yes John. Well you did have it coming," Mycroft smirked back holding Sherlock's gaze. Refusing to take the bait, he wasn't going to ask for details about the fight. He didn't really care what had lead up to it. It was Sherlock's using that concerned him. "and the drugs, what's that about? I assume it has something to do with this Culverton character."

"Yes." Sherlock nodded, finally looking away. Noticing that he was picking at the hospital wrist band, stopping himself, only to seconds later begin scratching at his arm. He really needed to get a grip of himself. The staring contest was forgotten as his mind sped onto other things, going to quickly to give a cohesive answer. "I had to have a way to get admitted, to give Culverton Smith an opportunity, an opportunity to kill me, I couldn't rely on John, I knew he stop hitting me too soon to do enough damage. Plus, the drugs made me look unstable and out of control..."

"No. the drugs make you unstable and out of control!" Mycroft snapped, cutting off Sherlock’s rambling. 

"Either way, it worked." Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "Culverton Smith is in custody and is apparently confessing to his crimes."

"I hope this means you are off the drugs then"

"Of course."

"Forever?"

"I doubt it." Sherlock replied, knowing that it was just the thing to irritate him. It worked, Mycroft winced at the flippant reply. He hated seeing his little brother like this, usual composure and grounded stillness gone. His hands twitching and shaking. The glaze of sweat on his brow, the lazy stubble and worst of all the haunted hollow look in his eyes.  
It bothered him deeply. Sherlock was always dangerously close to being out of control, even without the assistance of narcotics or the withdrawals from them. However, he knew better than to argue about that now. Best to change the subject somewhat.

"I'm not going to tell Mother about this, she doesn't need the stress." Sherlock drew a shaking breath. Frustration mingled with the sick feeling in his gut. It would not have really bothered him if their parents knew but he guessed it was better to spare them the drama.

"Yes, you’re good at that. Keeping secrets, controlling all the little pieces of the puzzle, manipulating everyone."

"What do you mean by that?" Mycroft asked. His expression unreadable.

"I don't know," Sherlock replied with a shake of his head, confused at himself. He continued his muddled line of thought. "They probably saw the interview on the news anyway."  
Nurse Cornish had mentioning an interview Culverton Smith had done while Sherlock's injuries were being treated. Always in a hurry to get in front of the camera that one.

"Yes, I dare say they have seen it, but no mention was made of your using, I assured none of that went to air." 

"Why do you do that, why do you care what people think?" It frustrates Sherlock that others are more concerned about his reputation than he is. He caught himself picking at the wrist band again, it was driving him nuts. As were the chills that alternated all too quickly with the flushes of unmanageable heat.

"If people know you are a junkie, I fear they won't come to you for help with all their little problems, brother mine." Mycroft stated, this was as close to warm and brotherly as he got. As he spoke he handed Sherlock the small rubbish bin that had been sitting beside the door. "Then you would drive us all quite mad with your fussing about how bored you are. I consider keeping you busy to be something of a national service." Raising his eyebrows as he spoke.

Sherlock tried to control his churning stomach but accepted the offered vessel. He was losing the battle. Clammy chills overwhelmed him, dizzy and nauseous, he couldn't fight the urge to vomit any longer. Sherlock leaned to his side, curling around the broken ribs hoping to protect himself from some of the pain that heaving would cause. Drawing his knees up and doubling over the bin he retched and gagged, there wasn't much to heave up, he had hardly eaten in weeks. When was the last time, the chips, no, surely not, that was ages ago, maybe when he had raided Mrs. Hudson’s fridge while she was out, was that before or after. He couldn't remember, everything seemed so muddled and off kilter. The ribs on his left side protested violently at the effort. He was thankful that John hadn't been wearing his army boots, those ridiculous brown dress shoes were sturdy enough, he thought as he threw up again.

Mycroft allowed Sherlock the tinniest of privacies by inspecting his manicured fingernails thoroughly, while Sherlock threw up. He knew Sherlock had been struggling to cope since Mary's death, but he was unaware, until today, how far things had gone. He hadn't seen Sherlock this bad for, what was it, nine, no, ten years now. That had been a particularly nasty episode. 

Sherlock wiped his mouth with the back of an unsteady hand. He wished Mycroft would leave. He felt vulnerable, laid bare, somehow even more so than he had with Culverton’s latex clad hand pushing down on this face. Mycroft had that effect on him, made his feel like a child again. 

“Do you remember the time, when we were young, I was sick and stuck in bed for days? Mummy made you stay away but she let Redbeard come in and stay with me. He curled up on the end of my bed.” Sherlock felt some comfort just thinking about how safe he had felt with the dog by his side. He didn’t know why he had brought it up. It had just popped into his head. Apparently, his ability to filter his thoughts was off line.

“No, Sherlock. I don’t remember that.” Mycroft said looking at his shoes.

“No?” Sherlock asked. “Maybe you were away at school.”

“Perhaps.” Mycroft replied, not liking where this was going at all. Sherlock frowned a reply, before another wave of sickness overcame him. Again, he folded himself over the bin and heaved. Dry retching this time. Mycroft winced in sympathy for the pain his brother was going through. 

"Thank you, Mycroft." Sherlock said, straightening up and offering the bin back to his brother. He, of course, didn't take the offered vomit bucket. Sherlock grinned at the disgusted look on Mycroft's face. He never missed an opportunity to mess with his brother. The grin was wiped away as he tried to sink down further onto the mattress. 

"Why stop cold turkey, you are in a hospital for God’s sake, surely they can treat the withdrawal symptoms? This is unhealthy."

"Takes too long, this is quicker, this way I'll be home sooner." Sherlock new from experience that the cravings would last far longer than the other symptoms.

"How long?" Mycroft asked.

"How long, what?"

"When did you start using again? Before or after Mary's death?"

"How dare you!" Sherlock roared sitting up fully. Pointing towards the door. Rage dampening the pain. Rage that he would even consider that he had been high when Mary died.  
Rage that he would even mention her name. "Get out. Get out now!"

The nurse came in to see what the shouting was about. They both glared at her as she opened the door.

"Is everything ok?" She asked politely.

Sherlock just looked away and Mycroft nodded, his lips pursed. The nurse quietly suggested that perhaps the visit should be kept short before she closed the door quietly behind her. Clearly, she had seen her fair share of family disputes.

"How long?" Mycroft asked more softly this time.

"None of your business.”

"You don't remember, do you?" Mycroft smirked again.

"What does it matter anyway?" Sherlock said wearily. The effort of talking to Mycroft was getting to be too much. He couldn’t even hold onto his anger.  
"I was just wondering how long it took for you to get to the point where you were wandering aimlessly around London practising your cursive."

"I knew you'd be watching." Sherlock muttered, an edge of triumph in his tone.

"That outing was for my benefit then?" Mycroft asked.

"No, not at all. I was with a client." He wasn't about to let on to Mycroft that he had hallucinated the visit from Faith Smith. "The message was for you though." Sherlock finished with a smirk.

"Thank you, it is always kind to receive a written correspondence from one’s little brother." Mycroft countered. "Even when it interrupts a meeting with the prime minister?”  
Sherlock didn’t take the bait; no snide reply came forth. Mycroft could see how much the conversation was taxing his brother, his body racked with shivers and cramps. He was, however, satisfied that Sherlock wasn’t in imminent danger and that his mental state, while fragile and unfocused, wasn’t any faultier than was usual.

"Please get some rest, you look terrible" Mycroft said over his shoulder as he headed out the door.

Relieved to finally be alone, Sherlock tried fruitfully to get comfortable. Something about Mycroft's visit bothered him deeply. He could not quite pick what it was. Was it just the usual sibling rivalry, their routine of bickering or was there something else? Sherlock couldn’t help but replay the conversation. It’s not as if he had much else to do. The whole thing irked him, but he kept coming back the Mycroft’s reaction to his jibe about control and secrets. Mycroft question "What do you mean by that?" hovered in his mind. Had  
Mycroft looked worried when he had asked or was he just imagining it? Was there more to it? Was he just too out of his head to think? 

A new wave of nausea overcame him. He tied to suppress the need to vomit. The aching and the shivering and the exhaustion finally overcame his ability to think of anything but his own misery. It was almost a blissful release.

**Author's Note:**

> Mistakes are all my own. 
> 
> It is all just for fun.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed.


End file.
